Chapter 4
Rory
The ice didn't judge. It didn't care about bloodlines or curses or the fact that I was one bad day away from losing my mind. The ice simply was. Cold. Hard. Unforgiving.
I carved a deep, violent arc into the surface, my blades screaming as I pivoted.
Sprint. Blue line to red line.
Stop. Spray ice.
Sprint. Red line to blue line.
Stop.
My lungs were burning. Good.
My quads felt like they were filled with lead. Good.
If I hurt enough physically, maybe I could ignore the fact that last night, I had stood in the woods behind my cabin and howled at the moon like a feral animal.
I slammed into the boards, the impact rattling my teeth, and slumped over the rail, gasping for air. Sweat dripped from my nose, freezing on the rubber matting. The arena was empty. It was Sunday morning, the campus was hungover, and the sun was barely dragging itself over the horizon.
I squeezed my eyes shut, but the image was still there.
Zoe.
Zoe in that red silk dress that looked like a sin. Zoe with my flannel swallowed her whole. Zoe looking at me not with fear, but with a terrifying curiosity.
And then, the Wolf taking over. The howl. It had been a claim. A sonic brand. This territory is mine. This female is mine.
I groaned, banging my helmet against the glass. "Stupid. Stupid. Stupid."
I wasn't a wolf. I was a man. I was a scholarship athlete with a 2.1 GPA and a ticking time bomb in his DNA. I couldn't afford to claim anyone, let alone the Dean’s daughter.
"Mr. Thorne."
The voice was dry, clipped, and devoid of warmth. It cut through the heavy sound of my breathing like a scalpel.
I froze. My grip on the dasher boards tightened until the composite gloves creaked.
I looked up. Standing in the tunnel, illuminated by the harsh fluorescent security lights, was Dean Carmichael.
Zoe’s father.
He was wearing a camel-hair coat and a scarf that probably cost more than my truck. He looked out of place in the gritty humidity of the rink, yet he owned it. He owned everything.
"Dean," I grunted, standing up straight. I didn't take off my helmet. It felt like armor.
"Sunday suicides," Carmichael observed, stepping onto the rubber matting. He kept a safe distance. He knew what we were. He knew that after a physical exertion, a shifter’s control was thin. "Punishing yourself for something, Rory?"
"Just training, sir."
"Commendable." He clasped his hands behind his back. "I wish you applied the same diligence to your academic pursuits."
My stomach dropped. "Sir?"
"Biomechanics," he said softly. "Professor Vance tells me you are currently sitting at a fifty-eight percent. Failing."
I looked away, staring at the scarred ice. "I’ll pull it up."
"Will you?" Carmichael’s voice sharpened. "The midterm is in two weeks. If you fail, you are academically ineligible. You don't play. You don't play, you don't get scouted. You don't get scouted..." He trailed off, letting the silence do the work.
You end up like your father. Dead in a ditch or locked in a cage.
"I’ll pass," I said, my voice tight.
"See that you do," Carmichael said. He turned to leave, then paused. He looked back at me, his eyes narrowing. "And Rory? I heard a disturbance near the duplexes last night. A howl."
My heart hammered against my ribs. Thump. Thump. Thump.
"Local wildlife," I lied. The lie tasted like ash.
"Make sure it stays local wildlife," he said coldly. "Because if I find out a stray dog is sniffing around my property—or my daughter—I will have animal control put it down. Do we understand each other?"
The threat was explicit. He wasn't talking about expulsion. He was talking about exposure. He was talking about death.
"Crystal clear, sir."
He nodded once and walked away, his expensive shoes clicking on the concrete.
I stood there for a long time, the cold seeping into my bones. I was failing. I was being threatened. And I was slowly losing my mind over a girl I wasn't allowed to touch.
I needed to fix this. I needed to study. I needed to pass Biomechanics.
The problem was, I was dumb as a rock when it came to physics. I understood force and leverage instinctively—I knew how to hit a guy so he didn't get up—but putting it into equations? Calculating torque and vectors? It was a foreign language.
I skated off the ice, my mood blacker than before.
The duplex was quiet when I got home.
I parked my truck, staring at the white sedan in the driveway. It hadn't moved. She was home.
I grabbed my gear bag and trudged up the steps. I paused at her door. The urge to knock was overwhelming. I wanted to see her. I wanted to make sure she was okay after last night. I wanted to apologize for the howl.
No. Stay away.
I went into my unit. It was cold. I hadn't turned the heat up. It smelled like loneliness.
I dropped my bag in the hallway and went straight to the kitchen. I needed coffee. Black. Bitter. Strong enough to restart my heart.
As the coffee maker gurgled, I leaned against the counter, staring at the shared wall.
It started as a low murmur.
“No, no, no…”
A voice. Her voice.
I straightened, tilting my head. My hearing was sharp, but the wall muffled the words.
Crash.
The sound of shattering glass.
My body moved before my brain caught up. I was at the wall in a second, pressing my hand against the drywall.
"Dammit! Stupid, stupid, stupid!"
She was shouting. And crying. I could hear the hitch in her breath, the jagged, hyperventilating gasps that signaled a panic attack.
The Wolf didn't ask for permission. He surged forward, seizing control of my motor functions. She is distressed. Protect. Comfort.
I ran to the front door, unlocked it, and stormed out onto the porch. I didn't knock on 4B. I tried the handle.
Locked. Smart girl.
"Zoe!" I shouted, pounding on the wood. "Zoe, open the door!"
No answer. Just the sound of another crash—something heavy hitting the floor.
"Zoe!"
I didn't wait. I stepped back and kicked the door.
I didn't use full shifter strength—that would have splintered the frame—but I used enough. The lock gave way with a sharp crack, the door swinging open.
I rushed in, scanning the room for threats. An intruder? A rogue wolf?
The living room was empty. The noise was coming from the kitchen.
I rounded the corner and stopped.
It wasn't a villain. It was a tragedy.
Zoe was sitting on the floor in the middle of a disaster zone. A smoothie blender lay on its side, the glass pitcher shattered, green sludge splattered across the white cabinets, the floor, and her.
She was wearing oversized sweatpants and a tank top. Her hair was a bird's nest. She was covered in green smoothie and tears.
She looked up as I entered, her eyes red-rimmed and wild. She held a thick textbook in her lap, clutching it like a life raft.
"I can't do it," she sobbed, not even questioning why I was in her kitchen. "I can't… the rotation… the axis… I can't do it."
She was hyperventilating. Her chest was heaving so fast she wasn't getting oxygen.
"Zoe." I stepped over the broken glass, ignoring the crunch under my boots.
"I’m going to fail," she gasped, rocking back and forth. "He’s going to pull me. I can't land the Triple Axel. I’m not strong enough. I’m weak. I’m just a weak, stupid girl who can't—"
"Hey." I dropped to my knees in front of her. I didn't care about the smoothie on the floor.
"I can't breathe," she wheezed, clawing at her throat.
"You can," I commanded. My voice dropped into the 'Alpha' register. It wasn't a growl; it was a rumble, a deep, resonant sound meant to ground the pack. "Look at me."
She shook her head, her eyes rolling back. She was spiraling.
I reached out. I took her face in my hands.
Her skin was clammy, streaked with green sludge and tears. My hands were massive against her jaw, rough and scarred, but I held her as if she were made of smoke.
"Zoe," I said, forcing her to look at me. "Find my eyes. Right here. Look at the gold."
She blinked, focusing on me. Her pupils were dilated with panic.
"Breathe with me," I ordered. "In."
I inhaled slowly, exaggerating the movement of my chest.
"I c-can't…"
"In," I repeated, firmer. I moved one hand from her face to her chest, placing my palm flat over her sternum. I could feel her heart beating like a trapped bird—too fast, erratic. "Feel my hand. Push against it. Breathe."
She stared at me, her lip trembling. Then, she sucked in a ragged breath.
"Good," I praised softly. "Again. Deeper. Fill your lungs."
We sat there on the kitchen floor for five minutes. Me, kneeling in green sludge, holding the Dean’s daughter together. Her, matching her breathing to mine.
In. Out.
In. Out.
Slowly, the frantic racing of her heart slowed. The color returned to her cheeks. Her eyes cleared.
She slumped forward, exhausted, her forehead resting against my chest.
"I broke the blender," she whispered, her voice thick.
"I’ll buy you a new one," I rumbled, my hand automatically moving to stroke the back of her head. Her hair was soft. She smelled of kale and distress, but underneath, that vanilla sweetness was still there.
"You kicked down my door," she mumbled into my hoodie.
"You weren't answering. I thought you were hurt."
She pulled back, sniffing. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, leaving a smear of green. She looked at me then—really looked at me. And then she looked at the broken door. And the broken glass.
A hysterical giggle bubbled out of her.
"This is… this is my life," she said, gesturing vaguely at the mess. "Everyone thinks I’m perfect. 'Ice Princess Zoe.' And here I am, crying over a blender because I don't understand angular momentum."
"Angular momentum?" I frowned, glancing at the book in her lap.